


i couldn't breathe if i tried

by alexanger



Series: i forget sometimes just how to breathe [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Chronic Illness, M/M, talk of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-13 01:24:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11174103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanger/pseuds/alexanger
Summary: “I’m gonna die sooner than later. I just want to be prepared.” James twirls his pen between his fingers and adds, “makes me feel like I’m in control.”[beginning of the companion series toa hell of a feeling]





	i couldn't breathe if i tried

“Will you still love me when I’m gone?” James asks.

Just like that, Thomas can’t breathe. He hits the floor and makes a strangled noise, and then his mind is gone and he’s just vaguely aware of a rocking motion and a pain in his head. The pain is repetitive and sharp. Rhythmic. He’s present enough to track when the next pain is going to hit, present enough to know there’s a hard surface that he’s hitting, but that’s all.

Something soft settles between his head and the surface it’s been knocking against. There’s a sudden absence of noise - where did the sound of the TV go? The silence is like a blanket, heavy on his chest and in his ears. A little bit of his breathing returns.

“Can I talk to you?” says a voice, as if from far away. Thomas concentrates. The voice is soft and husky. It sounds like threadbare cotton, fresh out of the dryer. A comforting voice. He whines a little and becomes aware of a flapping motion in his hands.

“I’m here, TJ. I’m going to go turn off the lights. I need you to hold this pillow if you’re gonna keep hitting your head.” There’s pressure on his hand and then his arm is being moved. His fingers curl around something soft. The word  _ pillow  _ drifts through his mind in search of a sensation to attach itself to.

The lights go off. And it’s so strange - his eyes have been open, must have been open this whole time, but he can’t remember seeing anything. The world returns in bits and pieces. He can see the picture on the TV and almost process the subtitles but the sound is gone, which is … nice. Pleasant.

There are other pleasant sensations. He notices that he’s stopped hitting his head, and the absence of that repetitive pain is nice. James is standing nearby.

“I’m going to touch your shoulder,” James says.

Thomas squeaks. James reaches out and starts stroking his shoulder in soft, slow motions. It’s sweet and gentle and Thomas closes his eyes and lets himself drift a little. His lungs swell. He can feel the motion of his chest rising and falling. The rhythm makes sense. It’s solid. There’s so little he gets - the world is a huge and intimidating place, full of things he can’t anticipate or control - but this, here, sitting on the floor with his feet tucked under him and James stroking his shoulder, makes sense. This he understands.

“I’m sorry,” James says. Thomas struggles to track back to the question. It takes a moment, but then it hits and it’s harder to breathe again. He gasps air into his lungs and then vomits a long, drawn out groan. When he breathes in, the inhale is choppy and hitched. His chest heaves as he struggles for air.

“Thomas, stay with me,” James says. “Tommy, hey, baby, hey - I’m here, stay with me, okay?”

Thomas groans again. It’s all he can do.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Hard,” says Thomas.

“Yeah. I know. Meltdowns are hard. Can you just focus on breathing?”

Thomas glances up and accidentally makes eye contact. Usually he can stand it - he kind of has to, working in law - but right now it’s far too much and he barks a harsh sob. It isn’t until that moment that he realizes he’s been crying and his face is soaked with tears.

“I’m here,” says James.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Thomas chokes out.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You keep saying you’re gonna go.” That’s as far as he gets, and then he’s sobbing and he can’t catch his breath.

James is silent for a moment. “I just want to be realistic,” he says.

“I don’t want to be realistic anymore,” Thomas sobs. “I want to be  _ okay.” _

“Okay,” says James. “Can you just - can you answer the question, and then I’ll stop talking about it for a while. Please?”

Thomas draws a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ll always love you,” he whispers.

James nods. He doesn’t reply. Instead, he settles on the floor beside Thomas, cuddles up close, and kisses his cheek.

 

* * *

 

 

Thomas takes pride in his cooking. He’s good at throwing together food for James - it’s second nature, after so long, to toss together something more than just edible. He makes  _ delicious  _ stuff.

“So much gluten-free baking sucks,” James like to complain, so Thomas likes to experiment with cookies and muffins and cupcakes. James deserves treats - he’s been working so hard lately - and Thomas is determined to cobble together a decent tasting batch of cookies. It’s hard to manage with so many restrictions, but he think he’s stumbled across a decent recipe this time.

The motions of baking are familiar and soothing. Sifting flour always calms him in a way few other things do. “I’m gonna try and make you some ice cream after this,” Thomas says, methodically sifting the almond flour for the third time. It’s a little excessive, but his nerves are still rattled from his meltdown that morning, and he needs to do something repetitive, something that makes sense. “I know you haven’t been able to have any since, like, the last time I was up here.”

“I shouldn’t have been eating it back then, either,” says James. He’s sitting at the counter and scribbling on a pad of paper.

“Well, good thing I’m here to keep an eye on you then.” Thomas tips some flour into the mixing bowl and brandishes a wooden spoon, waggling it at James. “Don’t let me catch you sneaking any more dairy, young man. You be good to that body.”

James protests, “It’s not good to me.”

“Take the high road. Don’t piss it off.”

With a snort, James turns back to his pad of paper. “It’s been pissed off my whole life.”

“Try not making it worse, Jumble.”

“You’ve used that one.”

“Gotta recycle,” says Thomas. “I haven’t used Jigglypuff yet, have I?”

James groans. “Never talk to me again.”

“You got it, Jughead. What are you working on?”

He seems reluctant to say. Squirming uncomfortably, James says, “I don’t want to say.”

Thomas goes cold. “Is it - it’s not a note, is it?” he asks. His mouth is dry. He swallows against a lump in his throat and his eyes sting.

“No!” James says. “No, I promise, that’s not what this is.”

Thomas breathes. “Okay. What is it, then?”

More uncomfortable shifting. It takes a while, but finally James mumbles, “it’s my will.”

There’s a curious sensation of heaviness gathering in Thomas’s stomach. It’s almost like nausea, but more desperate. “Your will,” he says. He’s no expert on tone but he knows his is flat and colourless. “Are you - is there an issue? Do you know something I don’t?”

“No,” James says.

“Why are you writing a will?”

“I’m gonna die sooner than later. I just want to be prepared.” James twirls his pen between his fingers and adds, “makes me feel like I’m in control.”

“How does it make you feel like you’re in control if it’s just … a whole bunch of thinking about dying? You don’t need to obsess over it.” Thomas struggles to breathe in. He turns his attention back to his baking. Chocolate chips. He needs non-dairy chocolate chips. He knows they’re somewhere, but where? They aren’t in the cupboard he keeps the almond flour in. There’s nowhere else they could be.

“It makes me feel like I get to choose,” says James.

They aren’t behind the flour, or under the flour, or beside the flour. They’re not tucked back in the corner behind the spare tetra packs of apple juice, the ones Thomas can’t jam into the fridge.

“Like, if I have this in order, maybe I’ll see it coming.”

Thomas pulls the plates out of the next cupboard over and pushes his hands into the corners, fumbling wildly. He makes a soft noise of frustration. Dairy-free chocolate chips can’t just walk away, he tries to reason with himself. They have to be  _ somewhere. _

“And if I see it coming, then it’s not as bad.”

Next to come out of the cupboard are the glasses. There’s no chocolate chips behind them either. Thomas groans, puts his elbows on the counter, puts his face in his hands. Distantly he hears James asking, “what’s wrong?”

“I can’t find the  _ fucking  _ chocolate chips,” Thomas says.

“They’re next to the bananas,” says James. “Like, right by your elbow there -”

“Thanks,” Thomas says, cutting James off. He can’t bear to hear any more. He dumps a whole bunch of chocolate chips into the dough, and then throws the half empty bag onto the counter and puts on his hoodie.

“Thomas,” says James.

“Yeah.” He says it sharply. He can hear himself as if he’s listening to someone else talking; he sounds impatient and angry.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“What do we do about the dough?”

“Make your own fucking cookies,” he snaps. “Gives you some control. That’s what you want, right?”

“Thomas, I know this is upsetting for you,” James says, “but I swear to you that it’s a thousand percent more upsetting for me.”

“Yeah. You’re right.” He grabs his keys from the bowl by the door and says, “doesn’t matter how it affects me.”

“You’re not being fair,” says James.

“Don’t care,” says Thomas.

“Can you at least bring your phone with you?”

“No,” says Thomas, and he leaves and slams the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

Thomas comes home just past eleven o’clock, long after James usually goes to sleep. He does his best not to make noise as he lets himself in, kicks off his shoes, and empties his keys and fidgets from his pockets into the key bowl. His cube makes more noise than he’d like as it clatters into the wooden bowl, but it’s fine. James has sleeping pills and the trazodone usually knocks him out cold for a few hours, at least. He won’t hear it.

He sheds his hoodie, tosses it over the back of the couch, and shimmies out of his jeans before working up the courage to head into the bedroom. James is in bed, sitting up propped against pillows, his phone in one limp hand. As always, Thomas has a moment of terror seeing him with his eyes closed - he’s always worried he’ll come home to Jemmy gone. He’s always afraid he’ll come home to a note; or worse, no note, no final goodbye, just a cold body, unceremoniously sprawled across the nearest flat surface. Thankfully he can see that James’ chest is rising and falling. Thomas breathes a sigh of relief. He strips off his shirt, changes his boxers, and crawls into bed. Gently, he shakes James’ shoulder. “Hey,” he says. “I need to move you so you aren’t dying of pain tomorrow.”

James stirs and groans. “What time is it?”

“Eleven.”

“Coming to bed?”

“Yeah. Hold on to me.” Thomas puts an arm around James’ shoulders and lifts him just enough to scoot him down in bed. He lays him back down and tucks the blankets up to his chin. “Comfy?”

“Mostly. Are you still mad at me?” James’ voice is tiny. It quavers a little.

Thomas feels his heart ache. “No, baby,” he says, but even as he says it, he knows he’s lying. It’s not important, though. What’s important is that James thinks he’s not angry. There’s no room for his feelings when James is doing so poorly.

“Okay,” James mumbles. “Did you already change?”

“Yeah,” says Thomas.

“Dang. Missed the show.” A huge yawn shudders through James and he reaches out and makes a grabbing motion with his hands. “Come snuggle?”

Thomas curls up beside James and kisses his face. They don’t do a lot of kissing on the lips - James is worried about germ transmission, and with the way his immune system is, Thomas can’t blame him. Still, it would be nice, sometimes, to make out. Like normal couples do.

There’s a lot of regular couple stuff they don’t do, and usually Thomas doesn’t mind, but tonight he’s got his back up. He’s disgruntled. He resents James, in this moment, not for his illness but for his refusal to participate in life.

He doesn’t want to see wills. He doesn’t want to think about life after James is gone. When James dies, Thomas knows part of him will die too, and he doesn’t know how to come back from that. How do you live when your heart has been ripped out?

He thinks of James lying still and silent in a coffin. He thinks of the way lilies smell. He’s always hated them - there’s a sickly scent about them, something that reminds him vaguely of the stench of an ER bathroom. If he’s the one planning James’ funeral, he’ll destroy every single fucking lily that comes anywhere near the coffin.

“I love you,” he whispers to James, and he holds him tight, as if that will delay the inevitable.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos encourage me to write more pain. chat to me at [alexangery.tumblr.com](http://alexangery.tumblr.com)


End file.
